


something just like this

by ivorykeys09



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, That time they lived in Ivy Town, season 3.5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: He has taken care of so many people for so long, and so she just wants to do this simple thing: make dinner for her boyfriend.(A snippet of their life in Ivy Town.)





	something just like this

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was random, but it wouldn’t go away. Let’s travel back to their summer Ivy Town days, shall we? Hopefully we’re headed back to those happy times soon. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Oh, that great cheese stand is back again,” he says, nodding towards a tent a few meters away and linking their hands together.

Instead of responding, she just presses her nose into his shoulder, breathes him in, and thinks for the thousandth time how much she loves this.

It’s a sunny Sunday morning, and they’re at their favorite outdoor farmer’s market. There are a few markets in town on different days of the week, but this one is her favorite—it has the perfect mix of fresh produce from nearby farms, breads and pastries from local bakeries, and some of the prettiest flowers she’s come to take full advantage of.

Along with pizza on Fridays and romantic movies on Monday nights, this is their Sunday tradition. 

Their night job in Star City had caused their lives to be incredibly unpredictable; no two days were the same and plans were canceled at the _ding!_ of her computer. So this habitual Sunday morning activity? She savors it. Because over the past month in Ivy Town, they’ve created _routine._ Just the two of them. To other people, it may be trivial. But to her, after the countless what-ifs and nightmares they’ve faced, it is significant.  

She loves that their Sundays start out here.  

Well. At least on the days they can make it out of the bedroom.

(Which is a regular, _welcomed_ challenge when you share a bed with Oliver Queen.)

Usually they don’t really have a plan in mind; they just like to walk the different rows, sampling things like strawberries and peaches and petting any dog that crosses their path. They always pick up ingredients for dinner, too, which is why she wanted to come to _this_ one today. Because for once, she has an agenda—even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

He wraps his arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her temple. “In the mood for anything in particular? I could pick up some of those fresh tortillas you like and make enchiladas or something.”

She smiles up at him and admires the view. His scruff is a little longer than usual, but she likes it this way. He looks more relaxed, like he doesn’t need to keep up any appearances.

Which is true. The best part about their time away has been just that—the lack of anyone to impress or answer to. It’s just them, each and every day, all guards down. Bare to the bones, in both the literal (very literal) and emotional sense. She’s seen him on his really good days and really bad ones. And he’s been with her though the nightmares and the dreamy ones.

But even on the toughest days, it’s also _so good._  

Their trip around Asia and Europe had been relaxing and amazing for their own reasons. So amazing, in fact, that on their flight back to the States, they almost convinced themselves that flying home was a mistake—they could just continue traveling from city to city, exploring more parts of the world and each other. But looking back now, after just over a month of being settled in Ivy Town, she’s so glad they didn’t do that. Traveling had been amazing, but _this_ is what she wants. At least for a little while longer. Or at least until her fingers ache for her keyboard. 

She spots the tortilla stand up ahead and it focuses her back on his question about dinner.

And her agenda.

From the moment they unpacked their kitchen, Oliver had become the chef in their relationship. It’s not that she can’t cook—because she _can_ , save for...omelets—but she’d quickly realized how _relaxed_ he'd become whenever he'd step into the kitchen. When he’s at the stove stirring something, or julienning vegetables at the counter, the years of tension ease from his shoulders and the weariness leaves his eyes. Her favorite spot in the house is sitting at the island, just watching him. About half the time, watching him cook is an actual turn on. So much so, that she’ll interrupt him in order to be pressed up against the counter in seconds.

But the rest of the time, she just likes to truly watch him. Especially his hands. They are strong and rough—usually always punching something, sharpening something, aiming at something. He is _so incredibly_ gentle with her, but she still revels in witnessing them do something as simple and as graceful as peeling a potato.

She doesn’t mind that he cooks. He’s great at it. But...it’s just...she kind of _wants_ to? They’ve settled into this domestic life pretty effortlessly, just the two of them, and for a reason she can’t exactly put into words, she just really wants to do this.

Her nerves get the better of her though, and she’s only shaken out of her thoughts when he lets go of her hand to pick up a bag of tortillas.

“Actually…” she starts, reaching out to touch his shoulder, “Do you mind if I cook dinner tonight?” She’s annoyed at herself for sounding a little nervous; and even more so when he notices.

“Of course.” He’s surprised, but he’s more concerned about the apprehension in her tone. His brow furrows with the unasked question.

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Really? Are you sure? I know it’s been your _‘thing_.’” She uses air quotes as she says it, and the action makes him smile. “So you can totally cook tonight if you want...I know it relaxes you, and I don’t want to stress you out or anything.” And yeah. The thought of her causing a nightmare settles it: “You know what? This is dumb. Forget I said anything. Enchiladas sound great. And look! How perfect. There’s the produce stand. Let me just get some lettu—” She tries to quicken her pace, but his hand eases her back.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?” she questions, averting her eyes.

“Felicity.”

She only looks at him, since she can tell he’s actually worried. “Yeah?”

“I would love for you to make dinner.” His voice is genuine and honest, and she can tell by his eyes that he means every word.

“Okay. Good.” She lets out a breath and leans up on her toes to kiss him. It’s meant to be quick, but the hand on her lower back keeps her there, and she’s glad for it.

“There are plenty of other things that relax me,” he says when they part. “Running, laundry, mowing the lawn…”

She grins at that. He’s totally a house-husband.

(Even though he is most definitely _not_ her husband.

Yet.

Hopefully someday soon?)

He continues, “But seeing you happy relaxes me the most. If you want to cook dinner, I would love for you to cook. I _want_ you to cook, actually.” His arm wraps tightly around her again as he kisses her, and the way he playfully sways them back and forth has her breaking the kiss with laughter.

“Ok, then. I’m going to shop for my ingredients.” She starts to back away. “Can you handle dessert?”

He gives her that smirk that sends a flare of heat through her body. “I think I can handle that.”

“Great. Your choice,” she says, still walking backwards and refusing to be distracted by him. He’s a few feet away when she nonchalantly adds, “Though that key lime pie at Sal’s stand looked pretty good...”

Because, yeah. It’s one of her favorites.

He leans back in laughter as he steps away, and the sound nearly puts a skip in her step.

(That’s another thing she’s still getting used to: his laugh. It is the best song.)

Ten minutes later, she makes her way through the throngs of people and eyes him at the entrance. And at the sight of him waiting for her, with some tulips and that darn key lime pie, her heart does that thing where it feels too big for her chest. It’s kind of unfair how attractive he is—all he’s doing is eating an apple and leaning against a picnic table—but he’s so handsome it hurts her eyes. And beyond that, he is just _good._

He is all the best words—generous and kind, safe and compassionate, loving and brave _._ And he’s all _her’s_.

Well used to it by now, she ignores the ogling women around him and quickens her stride, stopping once she’s _just_ inside his personal space. “Hi,” she greets. He tastes like apple when he kisses her.

“Hi,” Oliver replies, once he leans away. He offers her a bite of the fruit, which she accepts, before taking her hand. “Get everything you need?” 

She lifts her filled canvas bag as proof. “Yup. Don’t get too excited, though. It’s nothing fancy, but I think it’ll be good?” She mumbles it mainly to herself, but he still catches it. He doesn’t say anything and just kisses her temple instead.

But really. It’s stupid how excited she is about this, about making _dinner_ for him. But he has taken care of so many people for so long, and she just wants to do this simple thing: make dinner for her boyfriend.

(After a few months, that word still thrills her, yet it is still not meaningful enough.)

When they get home, he goes off to do his insane ab workout in the yard and then starts weeding the grass, since it’d distracted him while he was out there. She busies herself by arranging the flowers he’d gotten her, then stands at the kitchen window staring at him, since _he’d_ distracted _her._

He’s sweaty when he finally comes inside and she’s weak around Sweaty Oliver, so she doesn’t resist when he pulls her close and then drags her in the shower.

A little later, after they both finally get dressed, she heads down to the kitchen. She wants to ban him from the room, wants to completely make it her domain for the night, but the heated look in his eyes at the sight of her in an apron changes her mind. He takes her usual stool at the island, pours them both a glass of wine, and just watches her cook. Jazzy music plays quietly on the sound system and he doesn’t bother or interrupt her at all...even when she sways her hips and flirts her eyes at him over her shoulder.

The humidity has been staying thick late into the evenings, so at the market she’d been inspired to make something light and summery. As oil and garlic simmer in a pan, she slices thick pieces of French bread and heats them until they’re golden brown on either side. When that’s done, she tosses freshly diced tomatoes—mostly red, but with a few yellow ones for color—in a bowl with some olive oil and fresh basil. Then, using a spoon, she tops the bread with the tomatoes and polishes off the top with fresh parm.

If she’s honest with herself, she can barely call it cooking; it’s just a simple bruschetta recipe. But it was one of their favorite meals from their Positano trip, and she’s wanted to recreate it ever since. It’s light and flavorful, and perfect for the warm night.

She pairs it with a light salad with summery ingredients like corn and mozzarella, and brings the plates out to the back deck. He already has the table set and a few citronella candles lit, and after pouring them each another glass of wine, they finally sit down to enjoy it.

She takes his hand as she lifts her wine with the other. “To us,” she toasts, gently tapping her glass to his.

Before he takes a sip, he leans across the table and kisses her softly, and the gesture makes her eyes sting with tears. “Thanks for cooking.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, smiling. “Hopefully it’s good.”

And it is, much to her relief. He compliments her a few times throughout the meal, earnestly enough where she knows the praise is completely genuine and not just his Queen manners on show. He’s so charmed by how giddy she is about it, he wants to skip the pie and have her for dessert, but she insists they share a slice, so they do. And then later, when they turn the jazz back on as they do the dishes together, and he stops her to dance slowly through the kitchen, she thinks for the second time that day how much she loves this. This, them, _him_. Just mere months ago, she’d have never believed that this could be her life. That Oliver Queen would wordlessly take her hands, pull her close to his chest, and sway softly with her as he whispered, “I love you” in her ear. Their life in Ivy Town may not last; she knows they’ll probably make their way back to Star City someday soon, and back to the life and responsibilities they left behind. But for now, she has this; and so she’ll savor it with her whole heart.

(That day they start a new routine: once a week, she makes dinner and he’s in charge of dessert. 

It’s always her favorite, though.)

.

.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> I always appreciate reviews! Thanks for reading. xx
> 
> (ps. I may add to this?)


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